


Match Me

by lixabiz



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Christmas gift, F/M, Naga Chilli Vodka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2985707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lixabiz/pseuds/lixabiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secret Santa gift for menomonyfalls on tumblr. AU Ten/Rose where Great-Uncle Wilf has a matchmaking mind and John's crush on girl-next-door Rose Tyler is his latest quest. </p><p>Prompts: Ten/Rose, 'Snow'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MenoMonyFalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenoMonyFalls/gifts).



  
Great-Uncle Wilf, or Gramps as John had called him since he was twelve, was coming to visit next week right after Christmas. He was due to arrive on Boxing Day evening and planned on staying through New Year’s at John’s house. This was not a problem in and of itself as John was really rather fond of the old man and vice versa. The problem was that Gramps had recently got the notion into his head that he wanted to reach the elevated status of Great-Great Uncle Wilf and since Donna had declared that she and Lee were not going to have children (a decision they had spent many years debating) it was up to John to beget the much desired great-grand-nieces and nephews.  
  
He was not against this on principle - John rather thought he’d like being a father and planned to become one someday, once he found the future mother of his children and convinced her to stick around. However, he did not like being rushed into things and Wilf’s impatience had manifested itself into unsubtle hints and very, very bad attempts at matchmaking.  
  
He closed the email Donna had sent him informing him of Wilf’s plans and slipped his mobile into his trouser pockets. Stepping onto the curb, he fumbled for his car keys, wishing he’d put on a scarf. It was snowing, a rare event, and while pretty to look at, it was also bloody cold.  
  
A rustle on the sidewalk caught his attention. A young woman wearing a long fluffy pink scarf was walking by, snowflakes caught in her blonde hair. He straightened, abandoning his search for his keys.  
  
He didn’t know her name and she didn’t know his; they’d only spoken a handful of times - mostly greetings, because rarely did a morning go by when he didn’t see her passing by as he was heading out to work. She lived in the neighbourhood, that much was obvious. She also owned a red bicycle that had slightly rusted spokes which she rode every morning - to work, to school, to somewhere entirely different; he didn’t know which and often wondered. About two months ago, she’d started ringing the bell on her bike every time she passed by, and the chime made his stomach flip pleasantly. Today, however, she was on foot, the bike nowhere in sight, and he found that he missed the jingly sound.  
  
"Mornin’," she said, bestowing on him her usual sunny, wide smile.  
  
"Morning!" John replied, way too loudly, way too _everything_. He felt stupidly eager and uncool, she was only saying _hello_ for Christ’s sake. Reigning in the embarrassment, he smiled and rubbed at an imaginary itch on the back of his head. “You’re walking. No bicycle today?”  
  
"Yeah, it’s, y’know…" she lifted her palms to the sky, waiting for him to catch the punchline. He did, and they finished in unison, "-Snowing!"  
  
She gave him a cheeky smile that held a touch of tongue to the edge of her teeth. It flustered him, but he was saved from any further awkwardness by her little wave of goodbye and imminent departure.  
  
"Have a good day!" he called after her.  
  
"You too!"  
  
*  
  
The doorbell rang at precisely 6:02 PM that evening. John opened it and exclaimed, “What are you doing here? It’s not Christmas yet!”  
  
"Fine way to greet your Gramps," Wilf said with a sniff that uncannily reminded John of Donna.  
  
"Hello Gramps," said John instantly, grinning and enveloping the shorter, stockier, grizzly-bearded older man in a fond, warm hug. "You’re early!"  
  
"I am," agreed his Great Uncle, with a chuckle and a squeeze to John’s shoulder. He allowed John to take his one suitcase, shutting the door behind him. "Didn’t like the thought of you spending Christmas by your lonesome. Donna’ll come down too. Lee’s gone off to Prague, poor chap, she’s frightful upset at him about it. Can’t be helped, it’s for work."  
  
Wilf chattered on cheerfully as John put on the kettle, catching him up on the latest events of the Mott-Noble clan. When John finally set a mug of tea before him, he paused in his story and peered about the table. “Where’s the milk?”  
  
"Haven’t got any," John said apologetically. "Though I might have some sugar somewhere, but I can’t recall where I put it, exactly-"  
  
"I need milk!" Wilf was scandalised by the thought of taking his cuppa without it. "How can you live without milk? We’re going to the shops, boy! Take me there right now!"  
  
He even _looked_ like Donna as he said it. John smiled. After purchasing milk, however, Wilf insisted on dropping in on the shops on the high street to buy Christmas decorations for John’s house. He was severely lacking in them, Wilf declared, which wasn’t right.  
  
The shops were busy for a Monday night, but it was two days to Christmas so perhaps that oughtn’t have been a surprise. And perhaps he oughtn’t have been surprised to see _her_ wandering about the seasonal aisles either, blonde head bobbing to whatever music she was listening to on her earphones.  
  
John was torn between coming up to say hello and running as fast as he could in the other direction, because Wilf was with him, and Wilf would _most certainly_ get ideas, not wrong ideas, but ideas that were wrong nonetheless, and he didn’t want to scare her or make her uncomfortable.  
  
But she made the decision for him, looking up from the two sets of glittery baubles she was choosing between and spotting him hovering awkwardly next to a giant plastic blow-up reindeer.  
  
She smiled, pulled one earbud out and said, “Hi!”  
  
"Hi," he uttered in reply, already feeling tongue-tied. "Buying decorations, I see."  
  
She held up both packs. “What d’you think? Gold or silver?”  
  
"Oh, gold, definitely gold," he said, babbling, "It’s warm and rich and enticing to the eye and invokes the story of the Wise Men, though to complete the parable you’d have to find some frankincense and myrrh, which might be difficult to find at Henrik’s. But yes. Gold. I’m rather fond of gold, it’s… it’s pretty. Catches the light. Shiny."  
  
He tore his gaze away from her curtain of shiny, pretty, warm blonde hair and yearned for a hole in the floor to disappear into.  
  
"Gold, then," she said. Maybe he was imagining things but her smile seemed brighter and a little bit bashful, even. "Thanks for helping me choose."  
  
He watched her go after that, uncertain if the encounter had been good or bad or merely futile as always.  
  
Wilf’s head poked around his shoulder. “Who’s that cutie, hey?”  
  
He jumped, startled by the sudden appearance of felt antlers jabbing at his cheek, and then cringed. “Jesus! Gramps! No, just- don’t.”  
  
"What?"  
  
"She’s taken," he said quickly - because she was.  He had seen her walking hand in hand around the neighbourhood with her boyfriend. It was a fact, like the earth orbiting the sun was a fact, like Wilf’s obsession with Christmas was a fact. He threw his arm around the older man’s shoulders to steer him in the direction of the flight of stairs. "Come along now, time for your herbal soothers and a little lie down."  
  
"Where d’you think you’re taking me? The lift’s that way!"  
  
"Taking the stairs is better for your heart," he said, which made Wilf scoff with indignation and follow up with a cry of "My heart’s better than yours, boy!"  
  
*  
  
It was Christmas Eve. Donna had come by, because Lee was still in Prague for work and Aunt Sylvia had gone up to Wales to visit one of her ailing elderly relatives. His friend Martha and her boyfriend Mickey had also been invited and had joined the fray just before supper. John was surprised Martha had shown, to be honest, but he recalled that her parents were still embroiled in a bitter post-divorce battle of wills that had been going on for, oh, roughly ten years. Happy with their snug party of five, John settled in to enjoy the quiet celebration with great pleasure.  
  
He rather thought Christmas Eve was going swimmingly well, complete with pints and turkey and very cheap crackers, half of which did not even have prizes (the sheer nerve!) until Donna crept out to her car and came back in holding something that was definitely bottle-shaped and definitely trouble. He could tell from her dancing eyes that he would wake up the next day with a mahussive hangover. It was probably the overabundance of turkey and possibly the three pints he’d downed already, but he did not feel the least bit concerned about it.  
  
"Wotssat?" Mickey asked, ever curious.  
  
Donna brandished her offering to the couple on the sofa with pride and mischievous Christmas spirit. “The good stuff,” she said.  
  
"250,000 Scovilles Naga Chilli Vodka, 40% volume," read Martha, holding the bottle up at arm’s length. Her face went slack. "Oh my god. It’s made from Naga Jolokia chillies. The hottest chillies in the world, grown in Assam and Bangladesh. This is _deadly_.”  
  
"I like a bit of heat," said Mickey with a cocksure grin, taking the bottle from her and handing it back to it’s bringer. "I’m in."  
  
"Brilliant," said Donna, uncapping the bottle and settling down on the carpet cross-legged. Mickey followed with four shot glasses and Martha joined him. John was starting to have an inkling of a bad feeling - call it intuition - but he shook it off and sat down too, completing the circle of four.  
  
"To Christmas!" Donna toasted, and they all swigged.  
  
It wasn’t so bad, at first. Really, it wasn’t. Just a kind of warm wash of liquid, not much of the taste of vodka at all. Several seconds passed, and John tentatively swished the shot around his mouth, trying to see if any taste could be found. Within seconds he realised he shouldn’t have done that. He really shouldn’t have done that.  
  
Martha was the first to start coughing. She sprang to her feet, dashing for the kitchen with her hand slapped to her mouth. Mickey followed shortly after, gagging the entire way.  
  
Only Donna and John remained. They sat perfectly still, staring at each other in determined and stoic silence. A terrible, terrible burning seared up and down his throat and esophagus, but John maintained his stony facade. He would not break. Not before Donna did. Never before Donna.  
  
"What’s going on in here?" Wilf demanded, his confused voice cutting abruptly through the silence as he came into the room holding a string of tangled Christmas lights that had fallen off the banister. He stopped in the doorway, frowning. "Eh? What are you doing?"  
  
Neither of them replied. John’s eyes started to water.  
  
"What is wrong with you two? And why is Martha being sick all over the kitchen sink? Oh my. Oh my-! She- she’s not… " The expression on Wilf’s face was one of pure excitement and wonder. "She’s not… _with child_?”  
  
Donna made a choking noise and it broke him. With a gasp, because he’d been holding his breath, John shot to his feet and ran to the front door, shoving Wilf aside as gently as was possible in the circumstances. Which was not very gentle at all, unfortunately, sending poor Gramps stumbling against the doorframe. “Eh? Hey! Where are you going!?”  
  
Fire. His mouth was on fire. His throat was on fire. His entire abdomen was on fire.  
  
The door wouldn’t open fast enough. He fumbled with the lock, turning it with clumsy, numb fingers. Flames. All he could see were imaginary flames, licking at his internal organs, dissolving them. He wondered at the cruelty of man, of the monsters who would create such a thing, a thing whose only purpose of existence was to inflict pain and despair on others. He flung himself down the front steps and fell to his knees in the inch of snow that covered the dead remains of his petunias.  
  
He planted his face into said snow. That wasn’t particularly wise, as the ground was hard and the snow very cold and most of it went up his nose because as far as a method of conveying frozen water to his mouth went, it was a poor one. He reared back up and grabbed two handfuls of the stuff and shoved it into his mouth.  
  
The relief was instant, the coldness soothing and numbing at the same time. He screwed his eyes shut and tried not to cry. It would be cowardice. Donna would come out at any moment, probably, and if she saw him crying he wouldn’t hear the end of it for _years_.  
  
"Oh my god," said an unsteady, strained, and all-too-familiar voice. "Are you okay?"  
  
No. No no no. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. He lifted his head and opened his eyes, dreading the sight before him.  
  
It was totally, one-hundred-percent happening.  
  
The universe hated him, that was the only explanation.  
  
Her blonde hair was falling out of its pink hair grip at the back of her head, and she wasn’t wearing a coat, just a big red sweater. She was shivering, though perhaps not entirely because of the cold. He wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t notice the silvery tracks running down her face. She’d been walking past his house, and he had thrown himself into the snow at her feet.  
  
"You’re crying," she said, blinking through her tears.  
  
 _Fuck, fuck fuck._  
  
*


	2. New Year's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second part of my Secret Santa gift for menomonyfalls who did not get her present on time. Happy New Year, friend! 
> 
> After a very traumatizing morning where I accidentally deleted half of this chapter in my Evernotes app (I very nearly went to find a snowbank to drown myself in), I was able to recover the note from my desktop client. IT’S A HOLDAY MIRACLE. Thanks for reading.

Satan’s chili vodka was still wreaking havoc on his system in the morning and threatened to leave his body through an unorthodox channel if John so much as shifted positions in his bed before noon. He didn’t mind. Last night was a night of mistakes and he’d sooner forget them - getting up only meant facing reality. Alas, when the throbbing pain in his head and the scorching rawness of his throat became too much to bear, he finally forced himself to find relief.  
  
Grunting, John crawled into the kitchen - no, really, he _crawled_ \- and felt around the counters for a glass to fill with water. It didn’t have to be clean. He gave up after a few minutes of blind groping and turned on the tap, using his hands as makeshift cups to drink from it.  
  
"Up, are we?" boomed a cheery, unrelentingly loud voice. Christ on a cracker.  
  
"Too loud," he croaked, shrinking back to collapse against the fridge.  
  
"Serves you right." Wilf serenely fished a drinking glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water. He handed it to John, his face a mask of disappointment. "Drinking that vile stuff! Dunno where you kids get these ideas into your heads."  
  
"It was Donna," he managed to say between tentative gulps of water. His stomach roiled. "This is Donna’s fault."  
  
It probably had been the mixing that was making him suffer now - he shouldn’t have mixed, mixing was bad, everyone knew that. He should have taken that bottle out of Donna’s hand and poured it down the drain. Clearly being away from her husband over the holiday season had left her emotionally deranged and mentally unstable and utterly untrustworthy.  
  
Wilf sighed a very long-suffering sigh. “Hah! You always say that. And she always says the opposite. Ever since you were kids.”  
  
"She brought the vodka, ergo, it’s her fault," John croaked, watching as Wilf started putting things away into the cupboards. An array of Christmas-themed shopping bags lay on the kitchen table. After several more swallows of water and an ibuprofen tablet or five, he asked, "Where’d you go?"   
  
"Got some more milk," said Wilf. "You’re out of milk again. And orange juice. And vegetables. And meat, except for the leftover turkey. I’m amazed you haven’t starved to death. What do you eat, that’s what I want to know!"  
  
John lived on takeaway. There was no reason to buy groceries, they would just spoil. Unimpressed, Wilf harrumphed and changed the subject. A gleam came into his eye. “Oooer, guess who I ran into?”  
  
"Give up," said John, because the sooner Wilf told him, the sooner he’d stop talking. Bed was calling to John, a siren call, images of soft sheets and horizontal goodness filling him with yearning.  
  
Bizarrely, Wilf said, with the air of someone revealing something awesome, “Your cutie pie!”  
  
John had no idea what he was talking about. “My _what_?”  
  
"The girl you’re sweet on, dummy!" There was a delighted note to Wilf’s tone that struck fear into John’s already heavy, regretful heart. "In the shops, she was, early and bright, unlike you lot. I spent a good while chatting with her - name’s Rose, by the by-"  
  
"Chatting with-" John said, sudden dread filling him, "-who?"  
  
He knew, though, because this was punishment, it was. There was no mistaking who Wilf meant, and it only vaguely horrified him that Wilf had nailed it on the head in one glance - he’d known straightaway that John fancied her. A sick feeling in his stomach threatened to overtake him, and it took effort to hold at bay the memories of last night.  
  
"Rose," Wilf repeated slyly, or as slyly as he could manage, being about as capable of subterfuge as a cherubic reindeer-antler sporting Father Christmas with a penchant for woolly cardigans. "Rose Tyler. Lovely name for a lovely girl, doncha think?"  
  
He did think so, but John didn’t acknowledge it either way. He was too busy being absolutely hungover and appalled.  
  
"Lovely girl," Wilf said again, nodding with satisfaction. "She lives just down the road, in the flats around the corner, all by herself, poor thing! And she just broke up with her boyfriend, imagine it, on Christmas Eve!"  
  
John lifted his head way too quickly, pain seared through his skull. He winced and gingerly rubbed at his temple.  
  
That would explain the tears, he thought. She’d been crying. He hadn’t even asked about it, just gaped at her like a fool with clumps of snow stuck all over his face. He’d snapped- “Sorry!” and ran back inside to die of humiliation. The only consolation was that Donna had passed out on the sofa, so she hadn’t seen the aftermath of his trip outdoors.  
  
"So I invited her over for your New Year’s Party," Wilf continued, unaware of John’s inner turmoil.   
  
He said other things too, things John had barely registered in his private mental recollection of his complete and utter idiocy in the presence of a certain doe-eyed blonde neighbour. But this one sentence - this utterly devastating sentence - penetrated the fog of misery and dehydration to lodge itself into John’s brain.   
  
John spluttered, spraying water across the room.  
  
"Oi!"  
  
"You did _what_?”  
  
"The floor’s all wet!"  
  
"Gramps!"  
  
"Have you got a mop?"  
  
"No! You invited who to what? I’m not even having a New Year’s Party!"  
  
"Well, you are now, cos I already invited her, and her name is Rose. I _just_ told you.”  
  
*  
  
John was mad at Wilf for days and displayed his anger by stubbornly refusing to partake in Wilf’s holiday traditions - no antlers, no space exploration specials, no marathons of Home Alone until one in the morning every night. Donna, when recovered from her brush with the devil in a bottle, found this to be puzzling until she pieced out what had transpired. And then she laughed and sided with Gramps. The traitor.   
  
"Don’t forget to buy the milk!"  
  
John did not deign to respond to this because they were both unrepentant and inconsiderate and, frankly, it was unnatural for two grown adults to drink more milk than ten newborn infants combined. He shut the front door with more force than was probably necessary and walked over to the shops.   
  
He was last in line in the checkout, buying the darned milk, when he felt a hesitant tap on his shoulder.  
  
"Hi," said Rose Tyler.

She was standing behind him in her rainbow scarf, hair loose and face scrubbed free of makeup. She looked apprehensive but also determined, and certainly nowhere near as queasy as he did.   
  
"Hi!" John croaked, barely able to keep his shock from registering on his face. He stumbled out of the way of a group of antsy teenagers buying armfuls of fizzy drinks and crisps, allowing them to bypass him. Then, like a clumsy sod, he tripped over a display of tinned cat food. Straightening up hurriedly and face burning, he stammered, "H-how are you?"  
  
"Good," she said slowly. He wasn’t sure if it was an honest answer or not. An awkward silence descended.    
  
"Listen-"  
  
"Sorry, I-" he began at the same time.  
  
They both stopped talking. John shut his mouth, instantly completely drawing a blank on what he’d been about to say. He racked his brain for something, anything.   
  
She shuffled her weight from one foot to another. “Sorry. You’re busy, I didn’t mean to bother you-“  
  
"No! No, no, no, you’re not bothering me. Not at all. Not in the least!" His vehemence made her blink, but she stopped fidgeting and looked up at him, her expression grave.   
  
"Okay. You seemed…" Rose paused, searching delicately for the right word, "In a bad way, the other night."  
  
She looked at him a bit anxiously, as though she really was concerned about him and hadn’t simply written him off as a snow-eating pervert. His heart soared and dropped at the same time. It gave him mixed feelings to know that Rose Tyler, the girl he’d longed for from afar (for months, he could admit that now) - who was by all accounts a practical stranger, really - had witnessed him in one of the single most embarrassing moments of his life and come away from it _worried_ about him instead of disgusted. It was amazing and left him speechless for a moment.  
  
She was waiting for a reply, however, so he recovered himself and quickly exclaimed, “Oh yes, I’m fine, I’m always fine!”  
  
Her expression was unconvinced but she merely shrugged. “S’alright if you don’t want to talk about it. I’m not trying to pry, I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, that’s all. You are okay, right?”  
  
He decided to go for broke. After all, he’d already embarrassed himself beyond redemption. What was there left to lose?   
  
"It was a dare," he explained, resigned to telling the truth. "Sort of. We- my sister had a bottle of- well. It’s a long story. Not what it looked like. I wasn’t _crying_ crying. I mean, I was, there were tears, but they were tears of pain. My tongue was on fire, you see, so… the snow helped.” Jesus Christ. He finished weakly with, “I don’t usually eat precipitation off the ground.”  
  
She looked at him with wide eyes. “Why was your tongue on fire?”  
  
"The vodka had chillies in it," he said. "We were doing, um, shots."  
  
"Oh." Her mouth twitched, as if she wanted to smile but was holding back to spare his feelings. "Do you… always do this at Christmas?"   
  
"No, nooooo, never! I rarely drink."  
  
"Just at Christmas."  
  
"Er-"  
  
"I’m just teasing, don’t look so alarmed," she said, eyebrows raised. There was an amused light in her eyes now as she regarded him. "Sorry, I shouldn’t. It seemed very traumatic at the time."  
  
"Oh, it was."   
  
Again, her mouth quirked slightly. Suddenly, the humour of the situation dawned on him. He was an idiot, but sometimes the Universe loved idiots and gave them pretty girls, kind girls, awesome girls who found idiots endearing and worthy of concern. Sometimes being an idiot paid off, apparently.  
  
"It’s okay," he said with a sheepish little grin. "You can laugh."  
  
She shook her head, pressing her lips together.  
  
"No, really, go ahead," he said. "Please. It’ll make me feel better."  
  
Her smile came out, then, as brilliant as ever. It was breathtaking, like sunrise after a long dark night, and maybe he needed a good punch in the face because he was starting to sound like an absolute dimwit even in his own head.   
  
"I know Gramps invited you to our party," he began haltingly, "but you don’t have to come, if you don’t want to. It’s a small gathering anyway, no need to worry about it."  
  
"I’d love to come," she said, surprising him. "I wasn’t looking forward to staying home by myself on New Years, if I’m honest." She punctuated the confession with a small shrug. "I… s’pose you know what happened, then."  
  
"Your boyfriend-?"  
  
"-dumped me, yeah."  
  
It was then that he realised Wilf hadn’t invited Rose to an invented party because he was baby-mad and uncaring of John’s feelings. He’d done it because he was, at heart, a sweet old retired veteran who saw a sad girl in need of company and friendship. Because Wilf was Gramps, and Gramps had always had a soft spot for lonely kids, including himself.  
  
"We’ve been on the outs for a while," she said, wrinkling her nose and heaving a sigh. "I knew it was coming, was probably gonna end things myself eventually… but on Christmas Eve? I mean…"  
  
"Yeah," he agreed, as his mind whirred around the words ‘end’ and ‘things’ and ‘myself’. "That’s- terrible."  
  
"It is, isn’t it?" She nodded, seeming to draw strength from his affirmation. "Sorry, I shouldn’t dump my problems on you, we barely know each other, but I… you’re so nice, that’s all."  
  
"I don’t mind!" He reassured her quickly, the words ‘so nice’ joining the tumultuous fray of dancing vocabulary in his head. He would dissect it to pieces later, mine it all for hidden meanings and wishful thinking. "We could get to know each other!" Hastily, he corrected, "I mean, I’d like to be friends. If you want. Do you-?"  
  
"Course I do!" She beamed at him. "I feel like we are friends, though, is that weird? I see you almost every day, but we’ve never talked like this before. I think this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had!" She laughed lightly. "And it never would have happened if I hadn’t gotten dumped on Christmas Eve and walked by your house! Puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?"  
  
"Not so bad after all?"   
  
"Not so bad," she agreed.   
  
"See you tonight, then?"   
  
"Absolutely," she said, with a happy sparkle in her eyes that made him feel about ten feet tall. He felt a spark of excitement in his chest.   
  
They looked at one another for a moment, smiling, and then she gestured at the exit. “Well, I s’pose I should go…”  
  
He’d not noticed until now that she was empty-handed. “You’re not buying anything?”  
  
"No. I saw you outside, and just… sort of… followed you in… that makes me sound like a stalker, doesn’t it?" She cleared her throat. "I’m not stalking you."

 _You could do_ , he thought wistfully.

A hint of pink rose in her cheeks. It was utterly fetching. “Right. I’m going now. Bye.”  
  
*  
  
John opened the front door almost halfway through her knock, having spotted her coming up the steps through the gap in the front window curtains. She blinked, startled, but recovered quickly and said “Happy New Year! I’m a bit early, but I brought you these-“

She held out a tray of cookies, clearly home-baked. John melted at the sight. They were his favourite, chocolate chip, and still warm from the oven.   
  
Taking the tray with an assortment of profuse thanks that made her giggle, he led her into the hallway where everyone - which consisted of Martha and Mickey and several of his coworkers, the sad ones, the ones who didn’t have better parties to attend than his own very last minute gathering - had left their coats. She shrugged out of hers, and his mouth went dry.  
  
He’d seen her in a denim mini-skirt once, last summer. It had haunted him. She was wearing a red dress tonight. This dress would haunt him, too. It wasn’t short like the mini, but it was tight, and _red_ , and made her bum look _amazing_. Overwhelmed, he tore his gaze away from the compelling sight of her bending over to pick up the scarf she’d dropped on the floor and  wondered if he didn’t owe Wilf an apology of the first order after all.  
  
"You look lovely," he said, when she caught him looking.  
  
"Thanks." She smoothed the front of her skirt, a slightly nervous motion. "Thanks for having me, John."  
  
He grinned, enjoying the sound of his name coming from her lips. “Would you like a drink, Rose?”  
  
"Yes, please."  
  
After seeing Rose’s entrance and happily greeting her, Wilf promptly disappeared. Pleased with his matchmaking efforts, he was laying low somewhere in the house, presumably making rudimentary plans on transforming John’s guest bedroom into a nursery for their wee, unborn babes. In any case, John was glad Wilf wasn’t underfoot, dropping hints and being a kind-hearted nuisance.   
  
He would have more parties in the future, he thought firmly, as Rose sipped on a flute of champagne - the only champagne glass he owned, as a matter of fact, one he’d been given as a gag gift many years ago - and laughed at all his jokes. She seemed to be  genuinely enjoying herself. Yes, parties were definitely the way to go.   
  
Donna would be the first to point out to him that hosting a party meant circulating and ensuring that _all_ the guests in attendance were enjoying themselves, not just one particular guest, no matter how much of a ‘cutie pie’ she was, but he wasn’t speaking to Donna at the moment, and it was the greatest decision he’d made all year.   
  
Eventually, the champagne ran low, and John excused himself from Rose’s side to dash to the kitchen to retrieve a second bottle. When he returned, he saw that Donna had latched onto his favourite guest and was chattering away at her. She turned and gestured at the table they were leaning against, and as her body angled away, John saw what Donna was pointing to. His blood ran cold.  
  
"So it’s New Year’s Eve," he heard Donna say, "And, actually, we have a little tradition in our family-"  
  
No. No, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t do that. Not to Rose. She barely _knew_ Rose.  
  
"Vodka shots!"  
  
She would, she totally would, she was Donna.  
  
"No," he began, watching as the shot glass was handed over to Rose. The liquid in it spilled, and he recoiled on instinct, every fibre of his being recognizing it as the brew of Satan.  
  
"Ta," Rose said with a smile. She was so innocent.   
  
Emotion surged up inside him, righteous and all-consuming. It was his duty to protect her. He was the host of the party, she was under his roof, he was _responsible, culpable_. He ran across the room to her side, but he was too slow.  
  
She’d already reached out and taken the shot. He watched in horror as she downed it in one gulp, swiping at her cherry red bottom lip with her tongue to get every last trace of the vodka. It was adorable and _brave_ and unsettlingly suggestive, but that was probably just because he fancied her so much-  
  
Then she swallowed. Her eyes widened.  
  
"Sorry," he said, instantly reaching out to cup her elbow. "Rose, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry."  
  
She was hopping from foot to foot, her face growing flushed. A sheen of sweat broke out over her brow. She gripped his arm with both hands. “Oh. Oh. Oh god.”  
  
"Milk! You need milk!" Wincing at the nails digging into his bicep, he shouted, "There’s milk in the kitchen!"  
  
"Oh god, oh god," she choked, not listening to a word he said. Abruptly, and without letting go of him, Rose made a run for the front door. John was dragged along as Donna watched, giving him a thumbs up and a broad grin.  
  
 _Heartless_ , he thought, shivering in the brisk evening air. There was a fresh layer of powder on the ground, atop last week’s offering. Off in the distance, fireworks went off. It was all very picturesque, romantic, even, except for the part where the object of his desires was running around his front yard in circles, her tongue being burnt off by the Devil’s concoction.  
  
Tears streamed down her face and she crumpled to the ground, wheezing. John hurried over to help her up, alarmed.   
  
Her eyes met his. “Your Gramps was right-“  
  
She was delirious. Yes, it was likely. From the pain. He would kill Donna later.   
  
"Was he?"  
  
"We are a good match," Rose gasped, shoving a handful of snow into her mouth.  
  
*  
  
In later years, at Christmas, surrounded by their children and then grandchildren, John would tell the story of how he had met Rose. He always spoke grandly of how it had been love at first sight, and how to this day, the sound of bicycle bells still made his heart flutter, and never ever was uttered upon his lips the words ‘chilli’ and ‘vodka’ in the same sentence.   
  
(Great-Great Uncle Wilf told a different story.)  
  
(And so did Aunt Donna.)  
  
*


End file.
